“No, thank you,” he said, more quickly than necessary. “I shall go find her myself.”
He did not linger once his presence was no longer required. His stride lengthened as he retraced his steps. He had told her he would return. He had meant it. The terrace was quieter when he emerged, as twilight was settling into evening. For a brief, uncharitable moment, he feared she had gone. Then he saw her.
Hazel was standing near the balustrade, with the book still resting against her chest. She had her gaze lifted toward the darkening sky. She turned at the sound of his approach.
“You returned,” she whispered through a smile.
“I promised I would.” He had no idea why he felt this sudden onslaught of warmth. Or maybe he did, and that knowledge only made the warmth more powerful. “The crisis has been resolved. The house will survive the night.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she replied, then hesitated. “And I am glad you came back.”
He inclined his head, unable to look away from her face. “As am I.”
For a moment, neither spoke. He wondered if it was too late for a walk, if perhaps he ought to suggest going back inside, but then her words took him by surprise.
“At the risk of sounding unromantic,” Hazel told him, “I believe you were about to suggest a walk?”
He almost laughed. “Yes… if you are still inclined.”
She slipped the book beneath her arm and offered him a small, resolute smile. “I am.”
Greyson was about to answer when a sharp breeze cut across the terrace, tugging at her skirts and brushing cold fingers along the back of his neck. He stilled, and all of his attention snapped to the faint shiver that ran through her shoulders.
“Wait,” he said, lifting his index finger at her.
Her brows drew together at once. “Are you going to leave me again?”
The question struck him harder than it ought to have. He turned fully toward her. “No. Only for a minute.Thistime, I swear it.”
She studied his face as though weighing the truth of it, then gave a reluctant nod. “Very well. But I shall hold you to it.”
“As you should,” he replied, already turning.
He did not walk back into the house. He nearly ran. The corridors blurred as he moved, for his purpose was singular. He went straight to the small sitting room his mother sometimes used on warmer days of the bygone era. The chair beside the window still held one of her shawls. It was soft, thick wool in a muted blue-grey, forgotten there years ago when she had grown tired and been persuaded indoors. He took it without hesitation.
He returned to the terrace breathless, faintly irritated with himself, and immediately relieved when he saw Hazel still where he had left her, gazing out over the garden with quiet patience.
“See? I am a man of my word,” he told her, though his attention was already on the way the wind teased loose curls around her face. Without ceremony, he held out the shawl. “It will be cold,” he said. “The night is turning.”
She looked down at it, then back up at him. He loved it when her eyes sparkled like that, and it was all because of somethinghedid.
“This is… your mother’s?”
“Yes.” He paused, then added, more quietly. “She did not take it with her. And it seemed a shame for you to be uncomfortable when there is no need.”
Hazel accepted it carefully, as though it were something fragile. “Thank you. That is very thoughtful.”
He stepped closer, lifting the shawl to settle it around her shoulders before she could do it herself. His fingers brushed her collarbone entirely by accident, and she drew in a quiet breath.
“There,” he said, retreating a half-step. “Better.”
She wrapped it more securely around herself, her cheeks once again touched with color. “Much,” she agreed. “And… thank you…truly.”
The way she looked at him made him want to take her into his arms again and taste her lips. But instead, he offered his arm once more.
“Shall we?”
She took it. As they turned toward the garden path, Greyson became acutely aware that this small, simple act of care felt far more dangerous than any kiss.
